He Lives
I was traveling down Interstate 94 last Saturday, on my way to Kalamazoo, primarily minding my own business, rocking out to my favorite Strokes album—singing under my breath and without moving my mouth so as not to illicit a response from my fellow drivers—when I saw him.
At first I did not suspect that the driver of this mid to late nineties Ford Escort LX was of any unusual repute; he was a slow driver behind a semi; I decided to make my move and pass by as quickly as possible, so as not to infuriate anyone who may be speeding up behind me—I try to observe speed limits as much as I can. I caught a brief glimpse of the driver as I was going by, and I quickly thought to myself “that looks like Dallas Watson. And seated next to him ever so comfortably must be his wife.”
I ignored the thought, and in fact deplored the fact that I might be forced into an awkward highway greeting—you know when you see somebody you didn’t want see to begin with and they drive by you and suddenly you notice the car next to you is trying to keep the same pace as you, then you look over and see somebody you slightly recognize waving wildly: that is what I was hoping to avoid.
In any case, I move past this driver and the ever resilient tractor trailer and move into the slow lane. A minute later I notice this red Escort in my peripheral vision; realizing that this could be Mr. Watson, I maintain a tunnel vision like nothing seen before or since. Well, not one to be deterred, this Escort begins to honk wildly; I obviously cannot ignore it at this point, so I look over, which is when I see a grinning Mr. Watson extending a hand displaying index and pinky fingers, palm in, in my direction. I quickly wave and continue to look ahead and drive.
But, that was all the proof I needed: he is alive and well.
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